IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Hiotograpliic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


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(716)«72-4S03 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Mscrofiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductionc  historiques 


f/rf.1   'ti/i     ',^    .v 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibiiographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


a 


n 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurte  et/ou  pellicuite 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gAographiqubs  en  couleur 

Coloured  inic  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bieue  ou  noire) 


I      I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
ReliA  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  iiure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  cartaines  pages  blanches  ajouttes 
lors  d'une  restauratioi"!  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  4talt  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6tA  flimtes. 


L'Institut  a  microfiln.A  le  meilleur  exempiai/e 
qu'il  lui  a  4t&  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exentpiaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  renroduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mAthode  normaie  de  filmage 
sont  indiqute  c!-dessous. 


D 
D 
D 
0 
D 
0 
D 
D 
D 
D 


Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagtes 

Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaur^es  et/ou  pellicuites 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  dAcoiories,  tachetOes  ou  piqutes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tachtes 

Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quality  inAgale  de  I'lmpression 

Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppltfmentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  ref limed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feulllet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  M  fllmAes  A  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obten!r  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


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Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires: 


This  Item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  rMuction  indlquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

%X 

30X 

>/ 

• 

H 

.;,,'.    ^  , 

... 

12X 

,.. 

'.  ;"^.  '.".■■-. 

16X 

:'■!:  ;ti';. 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

The  copy  filmed  hare  hae  been  reproduced  thanka 
to  the  generoaity  of: 

Douglaa  Library 
Quaan'a  Univeraicy 

The  imagea  appearing  here  are  the  beat  quality 
poaaibla  conaidering  the  condition  and  legibtlity 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  apecificationa. 


Original  copiea  In  printed  paper  cover;^  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  laat  page  with  a  printed  or  illuatrated  imprea- 
aion,  or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copiea  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
firat  page  with  a  printed  or  illuatrated  imprea- 
aion,  and  ending  on  the  laat  page  with  a  printed 
or  illuatrated  impreaaion. 


The  laat  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
ahaii  contain  the  aymbol  — ^>  < meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  aymbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  appliea. 

Miipa,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratioa.  Thoae  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  In  ono  expoaure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  aa  many  framea  aa 
required.  The  following  diagrama  illuatrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  fiimA  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
gAnAroait*  de: 

Douglas  Library 
Queen's  University 

Lea  imagea  auivantea  ont  At«  reproduites  avec  le 
plua  grand  aoin,  compta  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nattatA  de  l'exemplaire  fiimA,  et  en 
conformity  avec  lea  conditiona  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Lea  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couvarture  en 
papier  eat  ImprimAe  aont  filmAa  en  commenpaiit 
par  le  premier  plot  et  en  termlnant  soit  par  la 
darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  emprsinte 
d'Impreaaion  ou  d'illuatration,  aoit  par  le  second 
plat,  aeion  le  caa.  Toua  lea  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  aont  fiimto  en  commengant  par  ia 
pramlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impreaaion  ou  d'illuatration  et  en  terminant  par 
ia  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  dea  symboles  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
darnlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  seion  le 
caa:  le  symbole  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartea,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
fiimAa  A  dea  taux  de  rAduction  diff Arents. 
Lcrsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  aaui  cilchA,  11  eat  f  limA  A  partir 
de  I'angle  aupArleur  geuche,  de  gauche  A  droits, 
et  de  haut  en  baa,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imagea  nAceaaaire.  Lea  diagrammea  suivanta 
illuatrent  la  mAthode. 


1 

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4 

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5K^" 


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MATINS 


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B7 

WrmiOlB  ShemuBi 
1896 


His  first  book*     SdLitlon  was  limited  to 
500  oopicit*     fhis  is  one  of  35  oopies 
on  hand  nada  paper* 


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MAT  IN  S 


Francis  Sherman 


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COPELAND  AND  DAY 

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COPYRIGHT  1896  BY  COPELAND  AND  DAY 


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TO 
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CONTENTS 

At  the  Gate 

A  Life 

At  Matins 

Ave 

Tiie  Foreigner 

Cadences 

Easter-Song 

The  Rain 

A  Memory 

Among  the  Hills 

To  Summer 

The  Path 

The  Last  Flower 

After  Harvest 

Heat  in  September 

On  the  Hillside 

Summer  Dying 

A  November  Vigil 

Nunc  Dimittis 

Between  the  Battles 

The  Quiet  Valley 

The  Kingfisher 

The  Conqueror 

The  King's  Hostel 

Between  the  Winter  and  the  Spring 

The  Mother 

The  Window  of  Dreams 

The  Relief  of  Wet  Willows 

The  Builder 

Te  Deum  Laudamus 


Page  I 

2 

4 
6 

6 

7 
8 

II 

17 

"9 

20 

22 

^3 

24 

24 

as 

as 

30 

3S 
36 

37 
38 
41 
43 
44 
4S 
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S6 

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AT  THE  GATE 

WING  open  wide,  O  Gate, 
[That  I  may  enter  in 
I  And  see  what  lies  in  wait 
For  me  who  have  been  born  ! 
I  Her  word  I  only  scorn 
Who  spake  of  death  and  sin. 

I  know  what  is  behind 
Your  h'*avy  brazen  bars ; 
I  heard  it  of  the  wind 
Where  I  dwelt  yesterday  : 
The  wind  that  blows  alway 
Among  the  ancient  stars. 

Life  is  the  chiefest  thing 

The  wind  brought  knowledge  of. 

As  it  passed,  murmuring  : 

Life,  with  its  infinite  strength. 

And  undiminished  length 

Of  years  fulfilled  with  love. 

The  wind  spake  not  of  sin 
That  blows  among  the  stars ; 
And  so  I  enter  in 
(Swing  open  wide,  O  Gate  !) 
Fearless  of  what  may  wait 
Behind  your  heavy  bars. 


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A   LIFE 


I. 


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^ETus  rise  up  and  live  /  Behold,  each  thing 
lis  ready  for  the  moulding  of  our  hand. 
jLong  have  they  all  awaited  our  command  ; 

None  other  will  they  ever  own  for  king. 

Until  we  come  no  bird  dare  try  to  sing. 

Nor  any  sea  its  power  may  understand  ; 

No  buds  are  on  the  trees ;  in  every  land 

Year  asketh  year  some  tidings  of  some  Spring. 

Yea,  it  is  time,  —  high  time  we  were  awake  ! 

Simple  indeed  shall  life  be  unto  us. 

What  part  is  ours  ?  —  To  take  what  all  things  give  ; 

To  feel  the  whole  world  growing  for  our  pake ; 

To  have  sure  knowledge  of  the  marvellous ; 

To  laugh  and  love.  —  Let  us  rise  up  and  live  / 

II. 

J  ET  us  rule  well  and  long.     We  will  build  here 
JL^Our  city  in  the  pathway  of  the  sun. 
On  this  side  shall  this  mighty  river  run  ; 
Along  iis  course  well-laden  ships  shall  steer. 
Beyond,  great  mountains  shall  their  crests  uprear. 
That  from  their  sides  our  jewels  may  be  won. 
Let  all  you  toil  !     Behold,  it  is  well  done  ; 
Under  our  sway  all  far  things  fall  and  near  ! 
All  time  is  ours  !    Let  us  rule  long  a^id  well! 
So  we  have  reigned  for  many  a  long,  long  day. 
No  change  can  come.  .   .    .  What  hath  that  slave  to  tell. 
Who  dares  to  stop  us  on  our  royal  way  ? 
<*  O  King,  last  night  within  thy  garden  fell, 
From  thine  own  tree,  a  rose  whose  leaves  were  gray.'* 


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III.  A  Life. 

T  ETus  lie  down  and  sleep  I  All  things  are  still, 
X- 'And  everywhere  doth  rest  alone  seem  sweet. 
No  more  is  heard  the  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
A  through  the  land  their  echoes  once  did  fill. 
Even  the  wind  knows  not  its  ancient  will. 
For  each  ship  floats  with  undisturbed  sheet : 
Naught  stirs  except  the  Sun,  who  hastes  to  greet 
His  handmaiden,  the  utmost  western  hill. 
Ah,  there  the  glory  is  !     O  west  of  gold  ! 
Once  seemed  our  life  to  us  as  glad  and  fair ; 
We  knew  nor  pain  nor  sorrow  anywhere  ! 
O  crimson  clouds !     O  mountains  autumn-stoled  ! 
Across  even  you  long  shadows  soon  must  sweep. 
We  too  have  lived.     Let  us  lie  down  and  sleep  / 

IV. 

?l  7^  K,  let  us  kneel  and  pray  I     The  fault  was  ours, 
-^  V  O  Lord  !     No  other  ones  have  sinned  as  we. 
The  Spring  was  with  us  and  we  praised  not  thee ; 
We  gave  no  thanks  for  Summer's  strangest  flov^^ers. 
We  built  us  many  ships,  and  mighty  towers. 
And  held  awhile  the  whole  broad  world  in  fee  : 
Yea,  and  it  sometime  writhed  at  our  decree  ! 
The  stars,  the  winds,  —  all  they  were  subject-powers. 
All  things  we  had  for  slave.     We  knew  no  God ; 
We  saw  no  place  on  earth  where  His  feet  trod  — 
This  earth,  where  now  the  Winter  hath  full  sway. 
Well  shrouded  under  cold  white  snows  and  deep. 
We  rose  and  lived  ;  we  ruled  ;  yet,  ere  we  sleep, 
O  Unknown  God, — Let  us  kneel  down  and  pray! 


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AT  MATINS 

ECAUSE  I  ever  have  gone  down  Thy 

ways 

rWith  joyous  heart  and  undivided  praise, 
I  pray  Thee,  Lord,  of  Thy  great  loving-kindness, 
Thou'lt  make  to-day  even  as  my  yesterdays  ! " 

(At  the  edge  of  the  yellow  dawn  I  saw  them  stand. 
Body  and  Soul ;  and  they  were  hand-in-hand  : 
The  Soul  looked  backward  where  the  last  night's 

blindness 
Lay  still  upon  the  unawakened  land ; 

But  the  Body,  in  the  sun's  light  well  arrayed. 
Fronted  the  east,  grandly  and  unafraid  : 
I  knew  that  it  was  one  might  never  falter 
Although  the  Soul  seemed  shaken  as  it  prayed.) 

**0  Lord"  (the  Soul  said),  **I  would  ask  one 

thing : 
Send  out  Thy  rapid  messengers  to  bring 
Me  to  the  shadows  which  about  Thine  altar 
Are  ever  born  and  always  gathering. 

**  For  I  am  weary  now,  and  would  lie  dead 
Where  I  may  not  behold  my  old  days  shed 
Like  withered  leaves  around  me  and  above  me  ; 
Hear  me,  O  Lord,  and  I  am  comforted  ! '  * 

*'0  Lord,  because  I  ever  deemed  Thee  kind  ** 
(The  Body's  words  were  borne  in  on  the  wind); 
'*  Because  I  knew  that  Thou  wouldst  ever  love  me 
Although  I  sin,  and  lead  me  who  am  blind ; 

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**  Because  of  all  these  things,  hear  me  who  pray  ! 
Lord,  grant  me  of  Thy  bounty  one  more  day 
To  worship  Thee,  and  thank  Thee  I  am  living. 
Yet  if  Thou  callest  now,  I  will  obey." 

(The  Body*s  hand  tightly  the  Soul  did  hold  ; 
And  over  them  both  was  shed  the  sun's  red  gold  ; 
And  though  I  knew  this  day  had  in  its  giving 
Unnumbered  wrongs  and  sorrows  manifold, 

I  counted  it  a  sad  and  bitter  thing 
That  this  weak,  drifting  Soul  must  alway  cling 
Unto  this  Body  —  wrought  in  such  a  fashion 
It  must  have  set  the  gods,  even,  marvelling. 

And,  thinking  so,  I  heard  the  SouPs  loud  cries. 
As  it  turned  round  and  saw  the  eastern  skies) 
"  O  Lord,  destroy  in  me  this  new-born  passion 
For  this  that  has  grown  perfect  in  mine  eyes  ! 

**  O  Lord,  let  me  not  see  this  thing  is  fair. 
This  Body  Thou  hast  given  me  to  wear,  — 
Lest  I  fall  out  of  love  with  death  and  dying. 
And  deem  the  old,  strange  life  not  hard  to  bear  ! 

"Yea,  now,  even  now,  I  love  this  Body  so  — 
O  Lord,  on  me  Thy  longest  days  bestow  ! 
O  Lord,  forget  the  words  I  have  been  crying. 
And  lead  me  where  Thou  thinkest  I  should  go  ! " 

(At  the  edge  of  the  open  dawn  I  saw  them  stand. 
Body  and  Soul,  together,  hand-in-hand. 
Fulfilled,  as  I,  with  strong  desire  and  wonder 
As  they  beheld  the  glorious  eastern  land  ; 

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I  saw  them,  in  the  strong  light  of  the  sun. 
Go  down  into  the  day  that  had  begun  ; 
I  knew,  as  they,  that  night  might  never  sunder 
This  Body  from  the  Soul  that  it  had  won.) 

AVE! 

O— MORROW,  and  a  year  is  born  again  ! 

(To-day  the  first  bud  wakened  *neath  the 

snow. ) 

Will  it  bring  joys  the  old  year  did  not  know. 
Or  will  it  burthen  us  with  the  old  pain  ? 
Shall  we  seek  out  the  Spring  —  to  see  it  slain  ? 
Summer,  —  and  learn  all  flowers  have  ceased  to 

grow  ? 
Autumn,  —  and  find  it  overswift  to  go  ? 
(The  memories  of  the  old  year  yet  remain.) 

To-morrow,  and  another  year  is  born  ! 

(Love  liveth  yet,  O  Love,  we  deemed  was  dead  !) 

Let  us  go  forth  and  welcome  in  the  morn. 

Following  bravely  on  where  Hope  hath  led. 

(O  Time,  how  great  a  thing  thou  art  to  scorn  !) 

O  Love,  we  shall  not  be  uncomforted  ! 


I 


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1    .  '• 


THE  FOREIGNER 

£  walked  by  me  with  open  eyes. 
And  wondered  that  I  loved  it  so  ; 
>  Above  us  stretched  the  gray,  gray  skies  ; 
Behind  us,  foot-prints  on  the  snow. 


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Before  us  slept  a  dark,  dark  wood.  TAe 

Hemlocks  were  there,  and  little  pines  Foreigner. 

Also  ;  and  solemn  cedars  stood 
In  even  and  uneven  lines. 

The  branches  of  each  silent  tree 

Bent  downward,  for  the  snow's  hard  weight 

Was  pressing  on  them  heavily  ; 

They  had  not  known  the  sun  of  lute. 

(Except  when  it  was  afternoon, 
And  then  a  sickly  sun  peered  in 
A  little  while  ;  it  vanished  soon 
And  then  they  were  as  they  had  been. ) 

There  was  no  sound  (I  thought  I  heard 
The  axe  of  some  man  far  away) 
There  was  no  sound  of  bee,  or  bird, 
Or  chattering  squirrel  at  its  play. 

And  so  he  wondered  I  was  glad. 
—  There  was  one  thing  he  could  not  see  ; 
Beneath  the  look  these  dead  things  had 
I  saw  Spring  eyes  agaze  at  me. 

CADENCES 

(Mid-Lent) 

I  HE  low,  gray  sky  curveth  from  hill  to  hill, 

(Silent  and  all  untenanted  ; 
From  the  trees  also  all  glad  sound  hath  fled. 
Save  for  the  little  wind  that  moaneth  still 
Because  it  deemeth  Earth  is  surely  dead. 

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Cadences.  For  many  days  no  woman  hath  gone  by. 
Her  gold  hair  knowing,  as  of  old. 
The  wind's  caresses  and  the  sun's  kind  gold  ; 
—  Perchance  even  she  hach  thought  it  best  to  die 
Because  all  things  are  sad  things  to  behold. 

(Easter  Morning) 
She  Cometh  now,  with  the  sun's  splendid  shine 
On  face  and  limbs  and  hair  ! 
Ye  who  are  watching,  have  ye  seen  so  fair 
A  Lady  ever  as  this  one  is  of  mine  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  her  likeness  anywhere  ? 

See,  as  she  cometh  unrestrained  and  fleet 
Past  the  thrush-haunted  trees. 
How  glad  the  lilies  are  that  touch  her  knees ! 
How  glad  the  grasses  underneath  her  feet ! 
And  how  even  T  am  yet  more  glad  than  these  ! 

EASTER-SONG 

lAIDENS,  awake  !    For  Christ  is  born 

I  again  ! 

.And  let  your  feet  disdain 
The  paths  whereby  of  late  they  have  been  led. 
Now  Death  itself  is  dead. 
And  Love  hath  birth. 
And  all  things  mournful  find  no  place  on  earth. 

This  morn  ye  all  must  go  another  way 
Than  ye  went  yesterday. 
Not  with  sad  faces  shall  ye  silent  go 
Where  He  hath  suffered  so  ; 

8 


\\ 

.\ 

*  ' 

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But  where  there  be 

Full  many  flowers  shall  ye  wend  joyfully. 

Moreover,  too,  ye  must  be  clad  in  white. 

As  if  the  ended  night 

Were  but  your  bridal-morn's  foreshadowing. 

And  ye  must  also  sing 

In  angel-wise : 

So  shall  ye  be  most  worthy  in  His  eyes. 

Maidens,  arise  !     I  know  where  many  flowers 

Have  grown  these  many  hours 

To  make  more  perfect  this  glad  Easter-day ; 

Where  tall  white  lilies  sway 

On  slender  stem. 

Waiting  for  you  to  come  and  garner  them ; 

Where  banks  of  mayflowers  are,  all  pink  and 

white. 
Which  will  Him  well  delight ; 
And  yellow  buttercups,  and  growing  grass 
Through  which  the  Spring  winds  pass ; 
And  mosses  wet. 
Well  strown  with  many  a  new-born  violet. 

All  these  and  every  other  flower  are  here. 

Will  ye  not  draw  anear 

And  gather  them  for  Him,  and  in  His  name. 

Whom  all  men  now  proclaim 

Their  living  King  ? 

Behold  how  all  these  wait  your  harvesting  ! 


Easter- 
Song. 


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11  .  I 


Easter-      Moreover,  see  the  darkness  of  His  house  ! 
Song.        Think  ye  that  He  allows 

Such  glory  of  glsd  color  and  perfume. 

But  to  destroy  the  gloom 

That  hath  held  fast 

His  altar-place  these  many  days  gone  past  ? 

For  this  alone  these  blossoms  had  their  birth,  — 

To  show  His  perfect  worth  ! 

Therefore,  O  Maidens,  ye  must  go  apace 

To  that  strange  garden-place 

And  gather  all 

These  living  flowers  for  His  high  festival. 

For  now  hath  come  the  long-desired  day. 

Wherein  Love  hath  full  sway  ! 

Open  ihe  gates,  O  ye  who  guard  Fis  home, 

His  handmaidens  are  come  ! 

Open  them  wide. 

That  all  may  enter  in  this  Easter-tide  ! 

Then,  maidens,  come,  with  song  and  lute-playing. 

And  all  your  wild  flowers  bring 

And  strew  them  on  His  altar  ;  while  the  sun  — 

Seeing  what  hath  been  done  — 

Shines  strong  once  more. 

Knowing  that  Death  hath  Christ  for  conqueror. 


'  'I 
\     \ 


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lo 


lying, 
n  — 

ror. 


THE  RAIN 

YE  who  so  unceasing  praise  the  Sun  ; 

Ye  who  find  nothing  worthy  of  your  love 

But  the  Sun's  face  and  the  strong  light  thereof; 

Who,  when  the  day  is  done. 

Are  all  uncomforted 

Unless  the  night  be  crowned  with  many  a  star. 

Or  mellow  light  be  shed 

From  the  ancient  moon  that  gazeth  from  afar. 

With  pitiless  calm,  upon  the  old,  tired  Earth  ; 

O  ye  to  whom  the  skies 

Must  be  forever  fair  to  free  your  eyes 

From  mortal  pain  ;  — 

Have  ye  not  known  the  great  exceeding  worth 

Of  that  soft  peace  which  cometh  with  the  Rain  ? 

Behold  !  the  wisest  of  you  knows  no  thing 
That  hath  such  title  to  man's  worshipping 
As  the  first  sudden  day 

The  slumbrous  Earth  is  wakened  into  Spring ; 
When  heavy  clouds  and  gray 
Come  up  the  southern  way. 
And  their  bold  challenge  throw 
In  the  face  of  the  frightened  snow 
That  covereth  the  ground. 
What  need  they  now  the  armies  of  the  Sun 
Whose  trumpets  now  do  sound  ? 
Alas,  the  powerless  Sun  ! 

Hath  he  not  waged  his  wars  for  days  gone  past. 
Each  morning  drawing  up  his  cohorts  vast 
And  leading  them  with  slow  and  even  paces 
To  assault  once  more  the  impenetrable  places, 

II 


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J.; 


I  F.' : 


^t  ■  3 


T'^tf  Where,  crystal-bound, 

J^ain.       The  ^iver  moveth  on  with  silent  sound  ? 

O  puny,  powerless  Sun  ! 

On  the  pure  white  snow  where  are  the  lightest 
traces 

Of  what  thy  forces*  ordered  ways  have  done  ? 

On  these  large  spaces 

No  footsteps  are  imprinted  anywhere  ; 

Still  the  white  glare 

Is  perfect ;  yea,  the  snows  are  drifted  still 

On  plain  and  hill ; 

And  still  the  river  knows  the  Winter's  iron  will. 

Thou  wert  most  wise,  O  Sun,  to  hide  thy  face 

This  day  beneath  the  cloud's  gray  covering  ; 

Thou  wert  most  wise  to  know  the  deep  disgrace 

In  which  thy  name  is  holden  of  the  Spring. 

She  deems  thee  now  an  impotent,  useless  thing. 

And  hath  dethroned  thee  from  thy  mighty  place ; 

Knowing  that  with  the  clouds  will  come  apace 

The  Rain,  and  that  the  rain  will  be  a  royal  king. 

A  king  ?  —  Nay,  queen  ! 

For  in  soft  girlish- wise  she  takes  her  throne 

When  first  she  cometh  in  the  young  Spring-season  ; 

Gentle  and  mild. 

Yet  with  no  dread  of  any  revolution. 

And  fearing  not  a  land  unreconciled. 

And  unafraid  of  treason. 

In  her  dark  hair 

Lieth  the  snow's  most  certain  dissolution  ; 

And  in  her  glance  is  known 

The  freeing  of  the  rivers  from  their  chainings ; 

12 


•  I 


I  ■''? 


And  in  her  bosom's  strainings  The 

Earth's  teeming  breast  is  tokened  and  foreshown.  f^<^^^' 

Behold  her  coming  surely,  calmly  down. 

Where  late  the  clear  skies  were. 

With  gray  clouds  for  a  gown  ; 

Her  fragile  draperies 

Caught  by  the  little  breeze 

Which  loveth  her  ! 

She  weareth  yet  no  crown. 

Nor  is  there  any  sceptre  in  her  hands ; 

Yea,  in  all  lands. 

Whatever  Spring  she  cometh,  men  know  well 

That  it  is  right  and  good  for  her  to  come ; 

And  that  her  least  commands 

Must  be  fulfilled,  however  wearisome  ; 

And  that  they  all  must  guard  the  citadel 

Wherein  she  deigns  to  dwell  ! 

And  so,  even  now,  her  feet  pass  swiftly  over 

The  impressionable  snow 

That  vanisheth  as  woe 

Doth  vanish  from  the  rapt  face  of  a  lover. 

Who,  after  doubting  nights,  hath  come  to  know 

His  lady  loves  him  so  ! 

(Yet  not  like  him 

Doth  the  snow  bear  the  signs  of  her  light  touch  ! 

It  is  all  gray  in  places,  and  looks  worn 

With  some  most  bitter  pain  ; 

As  he  shall  look,  perchance. 

Some  early  morn 

While  yet  the  dawn  is  dim, 

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The 
Jiain. 


When  he  awakens  from  the  enraptured  trance 
In  which  he,  blind,  hath  lain. 
And  knows  that  also  he  hath  loved  in  vain 
The  lady  who,  he  deemed,  had  loved  him  much. 
And  though  her  utter  worthlessness  is  plain 
He  hath  no  joy  of  his  deliverance. 
But  only  asketh  God  to  let  him  die,  — 
And  getteth  no  reply.) 

Yea,  the  snows  fade  before  the  calm  strength  of  the 
rain  ! 

And  while  the  rain  is  unabated. 
Well-heads  are  born  and  streams  created 
On  the  hillsides,  and  set  a-flowing 
Across  the  fields.     The  river,  knowing 
That  there  hath  surely  come  at  last 
Its  freedom,  and  that  frost  is  past, 
Gathereth  force  to  break  its  chains  ; 
The  river's  faith  is  in  the  Spring's  unceasing 

rains  ! 
See  where  the  shores  even  now  were  firmly  bound 
The  slowly  widening  water  showeth  black. 
As  from  the  fields  and  meadows  all  around 
Come  rushing  over  the  dark  and  snowless  ground 
The  foaming  streams  ! 
Beneath  the  ice  the  shoulders  of  the  tide 
Lift,  and  from  shore  to  shore  a  thin,  blue  crack 
Starts,  and  the  dark,  long-hidden  water  gleams. 
Glad  to  be  free. 

And  now  the  uneven  rift  is  growing  wide  ; 
The  breaking  ice  is  fast  becoming  gray  ; 


H 


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■f. 


4^«    V 


It  hears  the  loud  beseeching  of  the  sea. 
And  moveth  on  its  way. 
Surely  at  last  the  work  of  the  rain  is  done  ! 
Surely  the  Spring  at  last  is  well  begun, 
O  unavailing  Sun  ! 

O  ye  who  worship  only  at  the  noon. 

When  will  ye  learn  the  glory  of  the  rain  ? 

Have  ye  not  seen  the  thirsty  meadow-grass 

Uplooking  piteous  at  the  burnished  sky. 

And  all  in  vain  ? 

Even  in  June 

Have  ye  not  seen  the  yellow  flowers  swoon 

Along  the  roadside,  where  the  dust,  alas. 

Is  hard  to  pass  ? 

Have  ye  not  heard 

The  song  cease  in  the  throat  of  every  bird 

And  know  the  thing  all  these  were  stricken  by  ? 


Ye  have  beheld  these  things,  yet  made  no  prayer, 

O  pitiless  and  uncompassionate  ! 

Yet  should  the  sweeping 

Of  Death's  wide  wings  across  your  face  unsleeping 

Be  felt  of  you  to-night. 

And  all  your  hair 

Know  the  soft  stirring  of  an  alien  breath 

From  out  the  mouth  of  Death, 

Would  ye  not  then  have  memory  of  these 

And  how  their  pain  was  great  ? 

Would  ye  not  wish  to  hear  among  the  trees 

The  wind  in  his  great  might. 

And  on  the  roof  the  rain's  unending  harmonies  ? 

15 


The 


Kain, 


M 


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1! 


•"  > 


The 
Rain. 


)    W 


For  when  could  death  be  more  desired  by  us 

(Oh,  follow.  Death,  I  pray  thee,  with  the  Fall  !) 

Than  when  the  night 

Is  heavy  with  the  wet  wind  born  of  rain  ? 

When  flowers  are  yellow,  and  the  growing  grass 

Is  not  yet  tall. 

Or  when  all  living  things  are  harvested 

And  with  bright  gold  the  hills  are  glorious. 

Or  when  all  colors  have  faded  from  our  sight 

And  all  is  gray  that  late  was  gold  and  red  ? 

Have  ye  not  lain  awake  the  long  night  through 

And  listened  to  the  falling  of  the  rain 

On  fallen  leaves,  withered  and  brown  and  dead  ? 

Have  none  of  you. 

Hearing  its  ceaseless  sound,  been  comforted 

And  made  forgetful  of  the  day's  live  pain  ? 

Even  ThoUf  who  wept  because  the  dark  was 

great 
Once,  and  didst  pray  that  dawn  might  come  again. 
Has  noon  not  seemed  to  be  a  dreaded  thing 
And  night  a  thing  not  wholly  desolate 
And  Death  thy  soul's  supremest  sun-rising  ? 
Did  not  thy  hearing  strain 
To  catch  the  moaning  of  the  wind-swept  sea. 
Where  great  tides  be. 
And  swift,  white  rain  ? 
Did  not  its  far  exulting  teach  thy  sonl 
That  of  all  things  the  sea  alone  is  free 
And  under  no  control  ? 
Its  liberty,  — 
Was  it  not  most  desired  by  thy  soul  ? 


i6 


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us 
FalJ !) 


grass 


ht 


ugh 
dead  ? 


as 


again. 


?a. 


I  say.  The 

The  Earth  is  alway  glad,  yea,  and  the  sea  Rain, 

Is  glad  alway 

When  the  rain  cometh  ;  either  tranquilly 

As  at  the  first  dawn  of  a  summer  day 

Or  in  late  autumn  wildly  passionate. 

Or  when  all  things  are  all  disconsolate 

Because  that  Winter  has  been  long  their  king. 

Or  in  the  Spring. 

—  Therefore  let  now  your  joyful  thanksgiving 

Be  heard  on  Earth  because  the  Rain  hath  come  ! 

While  land  and  sea  give  praise,  shall  ye  be  dumb  ? 

Shall  ye  alone  await  the  sun-shining  ? 

Your  days,  perchance,  have  many  joys  to  bring  ; 

Perchance  with  woes  they  shall  be  burthensome ; 

Yet  when  night  cometh,  and  ye  journey  home. 

Weary,  and  sore,  and  stained  with  travelling. 

When  ye  seek  out  your  homes  because  the  night  — 

The  last,  dark  night  —  falls  swift  across  your  path. 

And  on  Life's  altar  your  last  day  lies  slain. 

Will  ye  not  cry  aloud  with  that  new  might 

One  dying  with  great  things  unfinished  hath, 

*'0  God  !  if  Thou  wouldst  only  send  Thy  Rain  !'* 

A  MEMORY 

OU  are  not  with  me  though  the  Spring  is  here  ! 
And  yet  it  seemed  to-day  as  if  the  Spring 
Were  the  same  one  that  in  an  ancient  year 
Came  suddenly  upon  our  wandering. 


I 


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17 


IJM. 


( 


A  You  must  remember  all  that  chanced  that  day. 

Memory,   q.j^^  yQy  forget  the  shy  awaking  call 

Of  the  first  robin  ?  —  And  the  foolish  way 
The  squirrel  ran  along  the  low  stone  wall  ? 


t     t 


f 


The  half-retreating  sound  of  water  breaking. 
Hushing,  falling  ;  while  *-he  pine-laden  breeze 
Told  us  the  tumult  many  crows  were  making 
Amid  innumerable  distant  trees ; 

The  certain  presence  of  the  birth  of  things 
Around,  above,  beneath  us,  —  everywhere  ; 
The  soft  return  of  inmiemorial  Springs 
Thrilhng  with  life  the  fragrant  forest  air  ; 

All  these  were  with  us  then.     Can  you  forget  ? 
Or  must  you  —  even  as  I  —  remember  well  ? 
To-day,  all  these  were  with  me,  there,  —  and  yet 
They  seemed  to  have  some  bitter  thing  to  tell  ; 


5-4 

•ft 

i     i       \ 


They  looked  with  questioning  eyes,  and  seemed  to 

wait 
One's  doubtful  coming  whom  of  old  they  knew; 
Till,  seeing  me  alone  and  desolate. 
They  learned  hew  vain  was  strong  desire  of  you. 


i8 


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% 


AMONG  THE  HILLS 

[AR  off,  to  eastward,  I  see  the  wide  tiill 

,  sloping 

I  Up  to  the  place  where  the  pines  and  sky 
are  one ; 

All  the  hill  is  gray  with  its  young  budding  birches 
And  red  with  its  maple-tips  and  yellow  with  the  sun. 

Sometimes,  over  it  rolls  a  purple  shadow 
Of  a  ragged  cloud  that  wanders  in  the  large,  open  sky. 
Born  where  the  ploughed  fields  border  on  the  river 
And  melting  into  space  where  the  pines  are  black  and 
high. 

There  all  is  quiet ;  but  here  where  I  am  waiting. 
Among  the  firs  behind  me  the  wind  is  ill  at  ease ; 
The  crows,  too,  proclaim  their  old,  incessant  trouble, — 
I  think  there  is  some  battle  raging  in  the  surging 
trees. 

And  yet,  should  I  go  down  beside  the  sv/ollen  river 
Where  the  vagrant  timber  hurries  to  the  wide  untram- 
melled sea. 
With  the  mind  and  the  will  to  cross  the  new-born  waters 
And  to  let  the  yellow  hillside  share  its  peace  with  me, 

—  I  know,  then,  that  surely  would  come  the  old 

spring-fever 
And  touch  my  sluggish  blood  with  its  old  eternal  fire ; 
Till  for  me,  too,  the  love  of  peace  were  over  and 

forgotten. 
And  the  freedom  of  the  logs  had  become  my  souPs  desire. 

19 


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■1 


S'    1 


I  M 


TO  SUMMER 

UM  MER !  I  praise  thee,  who  art  glorious ! 
For  now  the  sudden  promise  of  the  Spring 
Hath  been  fulfilled  in  many  ways  to  us. 

And  all  live  things  are  thine. 

Therefore,  while  all  the  earth 

Is  glad,  and  young,  and  strangely  riotous 

With  love  of  thee,  whose  blood  is  even  as  wine, 

/dare  to  sing. 

Worshipping  thee,  and  thy  face  welcoming ; 

I,  also  a  lover  of  thy  most  wondrous  worth. 

Yet  with  no  scorn  of  any  passed  days 
Come  I,  —  who  even  in  April  caught  great  pleas- 
ure, — 
Making  of  ancient  woes  the  stronger  praise  ; 
Nor  build  I  this  new  crown 
For  my  new  love's  fair  head 
Of  flowers  plucked  in  once  oft-travelled  ways. 
And  then  forgot  and  utterly  cast  down ; 
But  from  the  measure 

Of  a  strange,  undreamt-of,  undivided  treasure 
I  glean,  and  thus  my  love  is  garlanded. 

Yea,  with  a  crown  such  as  no  other  queen 
That  ever  ruled  on  earth  wore  round  her  hair. 
And  garments  such  as  man  hath  never  seen  ! 
The  beauty  Heaven  hath 
For  thee  was  magnified  ; 
I  think  the  least  of  thy  bright  gold  and  green 
Once  lived  along  God's  best-beloved  path, 
And  angels  there 

20 


' 


1 


ii 


Passed  by,  and  gathered  those  He  called  most  fair.  To 

And,  at  His  bidding,  dressed  thee  for  Earth's  bride.  •^«^^^''- 

How  at  thy  coming  we  were  glad  again  ! 

We  who  were  nigh  to  death,  awaiting  thee ; 

And  fain  of  death  as  one  aweary  of  pain. 

Life  had  grown  burthensome. 

Till  suddenly  we  learned 

The  joy  the  old  brown  earth  has,  when  the  rain 

Comes,  and  the  earth  is  glad  that  it  has  come : 

That  ecstasy 

The  buds  have,  when  the  worn  snow  sets  them 

free. 
The  sea's  delight  when  storm-time  has  returned. 

O  season  of  the  strong  triumphant  Sun  ! 

Bringer  of  exultation  unto  all ! 

Behold  thy  work  ere  yet  thy  day  be  run. 

Over  thy  growing  grain 

How  the  winds  rise  and  cease  ! 

Beheld  these  meadows  where  thick  gold  lies  spun  -— 

There,  last  night,  surely,  thy  long  hair  must  have  lain  ! 

Where  trees  are  tall. 

Hear  where  young  birds  hold  their  high  festival ; 

And  see  where  shallow  waters  know  thy  peace. 

Will  any  of  these  things  ever  pain  thine  eyes. 

Summer,  that  thou  shouldst  go  another  vvay 

Than  ours,  or  shouldst  our  offerings  despise  ? 

Come  with  me  further  still 

Where,  in  sight  of  the  sea. 

This  garden  liveth  under  mellow  skies ; 


ii 


4 


>  I 


Zl 


I 


b 


H 


\.i 


I 


\  i 


To  Of  its  dear  odors  drink  thine  utmost  fill. 

Summer,  p^^^  deign  to  stay 

A  moment  mid  its  colors*  glad  array,  — 
Is  not  this  place  a  pleasant  one  for  thee  ? 

Yea,  thou  wilt  ever  stay,  I  know  full  well  ! 

Why  do  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  pass  from  us  ? 

Is  not  this  earth  thy  home  wherein  to  dwell  ? 

The  perfect  wa)^s  thereof 

Are  thy  desired  ones  ; 

Earth  hath  no  voice  but  of  thy  worth  to  tell. 

Therefore,  as  one  who  loves  might  praise  his  love. 

So,  even  thus, 

I  hail  thee.  Summer,  who  art  glorious. 

And  know  thy  reign  eternal  as  the  Sun's  ! 


'i:  '         'V 


\         \ 


THE  PATH 

•S  this  the  path  that  knew  your  tread. 
Once,  when  the  skies  were  just  as  blue 

lAs  they  are  nov ,  far  overhead  ? 
Are  these  the  trees  that  looked  at  you 
And  listened  to  the  words  you  said  ? 

Along  this  moss  did  your  dress  sweep  ? 
And  is  this  broken  stem  the  one 
That  gave  its  flower  to  you  to  keep  ? 
And  here  where  the  grasses  knew  the  sun 
Before  a  sickle  came  to  reap 
Did  your  dear  shadow  softly  fall  ? 
This  place  is  very  like,  and  yet 
No  shadow  lieth  here  at  all ; 

22 


I 


\f^      k 


r 


II! 
us  ? 
veil  ? 


With  dew  the  mosses  still  are  wet 
Although  the  grass  no  more  is  tall. 

The  small  brown  birds  go  rustling  through 
The  low-branched  hemlock  as  of  old  ; 
The  tree-tops  almost  touch  the  blue  ; 
The  sunlight  falleth  down  like  gold 
On  one  new  flower  that  waiteth  you. 


The  Path. 


tell, 
his  love. 


•ead, 
is  blue 


THE   LAST    FLOWER 

GOLDEN-ROD,  well-worshipped  of  the 

sun! 

Where  else  hath  Summer  tarried  save  in  thee  ? 
This  meadow  is  a  barren  thing  to  see. 
For  here  the  reapers*  toil  is  over  and  done. 
Of  all  her  many  birds  there  is  but  one 
Left  to  assail  the  last  wild  raspberry  ; 
The  buttercups  and  daisies  withered  be. 
And  yet  thy  reign  hath  only  now  begun. 
O  sign  of  power  and  sway  imperial ! 
O  sceptre  thrust  into  the  hands  of  Fall 
By  Summer  ere  Earth  forget  her  soft  foot's  tread! 
O  woman-flower,  for  love  oHhee,  alas. 
Even  the  trees  have  let  their  glory  pass. 
And  now  with  thy  gold  hair  are.  garlanded  ! 


'  ^i\ 


\i 


23 


iVj 


'I 


J   t 


i^'  i 


1 


i"il 


AFTER  HARVEST 

EARTH,  O  Mother,  thou  hast  earned 

our  praise  ! 

The  long  year  through  thou  hast  been 
good  to  us. 

Forgive  us  were  we  ever  mutinous 
Or  unbelieving  in  thy  strange,  sure  ways. 
Sometimes,  alas,  we  watched  with  wild  amaze 
Thy  passing,  for  thou  wert  imperious 
Indeed  ;  and  our  estate  seemed  perilous. 
And  we  as  grass  the  wind  unseeing  sways. 
Then,  we  were  blind  :  the  least  among  us  sees. 
Now,  in  each  well-stripped  vine  and  barren  field. 
Each  garden  that  is  fast  a-perishing. 
The  promise  April  surely  had  revealed 
Had  we  had  grace  to  bend  our  stubborn  knees 
Who  'seek  thee  now  with  humble  thanksgiving. 

HEAT   IN   SEPTEMBER 

*ND  why  shouldst  thou  come  back  to  us,  July, 
'Who  vanished  while  we  prayed  thee  not  to 
I  pass  ? 

Where  are  thy  sunflowers  ?     Where  thine  uncut  grass  ? 

Thy  still,  blue  waters  and  thy  cloudless  sky  ? 

Surely,  to-day  thy  very  self  is  nigh  ; 

Only  the  wind  that  bloweth  in,  alas, 

Telleth  of  fire  where  many  a  green  tree  was  ; 

And  the  crimson  sun  at  noonday  standeth  high. 

Must  I,  like  him  who,  seeing  once  again 

The  long-awaited  face  of  his  lost  love. 


24 


m 


fwm 


mimmm 


^mm 


w. 


Hath  little  strength  to  thank  the  gods  above  -^<?«^ »« 

(Remembering  most  the  ancient  passion's  pain),  'S'^/^^/»^^> 
Yet  striveth  to  recall  the  joys  thereof,  — 
Must  I,  like  him,  beseech  thee  to  remain  ? 


ON   THE   HILLSIDE 

[CTOBER'S  peace  hath  fallen  on  everything. 
In  the  far  west,  above  the  pine-crowned  hill. 
With  red  and  purple  yet  the  heavens  thrill  — 
The  passing  of  the  sun  remembering. 
A  crow  sails  by  on  heavy,  flapping  wing, 
(In  some  land,  surely  theyoung  Spring  hath  her 

will  !) 
Below,  the  little  city  lieth  still  ; 
And  on  the  river's  breast  the  mist-wreaths  cling. 
Here,  on  this  slope  that  yet  hath  known  no 

plough. 
The  cattle  wander  homeward  slowly  now  ; 
In  shapeless  clumps  the  ferns  are  brown  and  dead. 
Among  the  nr-trees  dusk  is  swiftly  born ; 
The  maples  will  be  desolate  by  morn. 
The  last  word  of  the  summer  hath  been  said. 


SUMMER   DYING 

'AST  night  the  heavy  moaning  wind 

'Bore  unto  me 

;  Warning  from  Him  who  hath  designed 


That  change  shall  be. 


25 


(* 


t       * 

M 


i* 


It  i 

H\  - 


ti  M 


■I 


\ 


hi 


>!' 


1^ 


IJ: 


^m 


\  J 


it 


[ 


Summer   Beneath  these  mighty  hills  I  lay, 
-^'"i''      At  rest  at  last. 

And  thinking  on  the  golden  day 

But  now  gone  past ; 


i 


When  sofdy  came  a  faint,  far  cry 
That  night  made  clear, 
"  T/iy  reign  is  over,  thou  must  die  ; 
Winter  is  near  I  " 

"  Winter  is  near  /"  Yea,  all  night  long 

Reechoed  far 

The  burden  of  that  weary  song 

Of  hopeless  war. 


I  prayed  unto  the  fixdd  King 
Of  changing  Time 
For  longer  life,  till  sun-rising 
And  morning's  prime. 

And  while  to-day  I  watched  the  sun 
Rise,  slant,  and  die  ; 
And  now  is  night  the  stronger  one. 
Again  the  cry 

Comes,  louder  now,  —  "  Thy  reign  is  o'er}  " 
Yes,  Lord,  I  know  ; 
And  here  I  kneel  on  Earth's  cold  floor 
Once,  ere  I  go. 


'i 


ft 


\ 


V^\ 


%  > 


I 


26 


v\ 


^ 


i 

I 


And  thank  Thee  for  the  long,  long  days 
Thou  gavest  me. 

And  all  the  pleasant,  laughing  ways 
I  walked  with  Thee. 


Summer 
Dying. 


t 


I  have  been  happy  since  the  first 
Glad  day  I  rose 

And  found  the  river  here  had  burst 
Through  ice  and  snows 

While  I  had  slept.     Blue  places  were 
Amidst  the  gray. 

Where  water  showed ;  and  the  water 
Most  quiet  lay. 

Upon  the  ice  great  flocks  of  crows 
Were  clamoring  — 

Lest  my  blue  eyes  again  should  close  — 
The  eyes  of  Spring. 

I  stepped  down  to  the  frozen  shore  — 
The  snow  was  gone  ; 
And  lo,  where  ice  had  been  before. 
The  river  shone  ! 

With  loud,  hoarse  cries  back  flew  the  birds 
To  the  tall  pines ;  , 

These  were  the  first  of  Spring's  faint  words 
And  Summer's  signs. 


27 


\i 


i 
i 

I 

Vi 

"i  • 

'i\ 


( 


a  m 


Summer   And  now  I  hear  Thee  —  "  Thou  must  die  f  " 
^»«^-      Ah,  might  I  stay. 

That  I  might  hear  one  robin's  cry 

Bringing  the  day  ; 

That  I  might  see  the  new  grass  come 
Where  cattle  range  ; 
The  maples  bud,  wild  roses  bloom. 
Old  willows  change  ; 

That  I  might  know  one  night  in  June 
Two  found  most  fair. 
And  see  again  the  great  half-moon 
Shine  through  her  hair ; 

Or  under  rough,  gnarled  boughs  might  lie. 
Where  orchards  are. 
And  hear  some  glad  child's  laughing  cry 
Ring  loud  and  far ; 

Or  even.  Lord,  though  near  my  end 

It  surely  be, 

Couldst  Thou  not  hold  Time  back,  and  send 

One  day  to  me. 

One  day  —  October's  brown  and  red 
Cover  the  hills. 

And  all  the  brakes  and  ferns  are  dead. 
And  quiet  fills 


28 


M 


wm 


One  place  where  many  birds  once  sang  ? 
Then  should  I  go 
Where  heavy  fir-trees  overhang 
Their  branches  so. 

And  slim  white  birches,  quivering. 
Loose  yellow  leaves. 
And  aspens  grow,  and  everything 
For  Summer  grieves. 

Ah,  there  once  more,  ere  day  be  done. 
To  face  the  west. 
And  see  the  sure  and  scarlet  sun 
Sink  to  its  rest 

Beyond  the  ploughed  field  sloping  sheer 

Up  to  the  sky  ; 

To  feel  the  last  light  disappear 

And  silent  die ; 


Summer 
Dying. 


'i 


r! 


'     ,T! 


M 


To  see  faint  stars.   .    .   .   Yea,  Lord,  I  come ; 
I  hear  Thy  call ; 

Reach  me  Thy  hand  and  guide  me  home. 
Lest  I  should  fall.   .    .   . 

Back,  Winter  !  Back  !  .   .   .   Yea,  Lord,  I,  dead. 
Now  come  to  Thee  ; 
I  know  Thy  voice,  and  Thou  hast  said 
*'Let  Winter  be/'' 


!| 
Hi 


'4, 


29 


■I' 


■  •  ■■M 


111 


It 


(: 


A  NOVEMBER  VIGIL 

WONDER  why  my  love  for  him 
Should  grow  so  much  these  last  three  days. 
While  he  but  stares  as  if  some  whim 
Had  been  discovered  to  his  gaze ; 


Some  foolish  whim  that  brings  but  shame 
Whatever  time  he  thinks  thereof, — 
To  him  my  name  is  now  the  name 
Of  some  old  half-forgotten  love. 

And  yet  I  starve  for  his  least  kiss 
And  faint  because  my  love  is  great ; 
I,  who  am  now  no  more  than  this,  — 
An  unseen  beggar  at  his  gate.    .   .    . 

She  watched  the  moon  and  spake  aloud. 
The  moon  seemed  not  to  rise,  but  hung 
Just  underneath  the  long  straight  cloud 
That  low  across  the  heavens  swung. 

As  if  to  press  the  old  moon  back 

Into  its  place  behind  the  trees. 

The  trees  stood  where  the  hill  was  black; 

They  were  not  vexed  by  any  breeze. 

The  moon  was  not  as  it  had  been 
Before,  when  she  had  watched  it  rise  ; 
It  was  misshapen  now,  and  thin, 
As  if  some  trouble  in  the  skies 


30 


mmmi 


■^ 


Hat/  happened  more  than  it  could  dear, 
Its  color,  too,  was  no  more  red ; 
Nor  was  it  like  her  yellow  hair  ;  — 
//  looked  as  if  its  soul  were  dead, 

I,  who  was  once  well-loved  of  him. 
Am  as  a  beggar  by  his  gate 
Whereon  black  carved  things  look  grim 
At  one  who  thinks  to  penetrate. 

I  do  not  ask  if  I  may  stray 
Once  more  in  those  desired  lands ; 
Another  night,  yet  one  more  day. 
For  these  I  do  not  make  demands ; 

For  when  the  ripened  hour  is  past 
Things  such  as  these  are  asked  in  vain : 
His  first  day's  love,  — were  that  the  last 
I  were  repaid  for  this  new  pain. 

Out  of  his  love  great  joy  I  had 
For  many  days ;  and  even  now 
I  do  not  dare  to  be  but  glad 
When  I  remember,  often,  how 

He  said  he  had  great  joy  of  me. 
The  while  he  loved,  no  man,  I  think. 
Exceeded  him  in  constancy  ; 
My  passion,  even,  seemed  to  shrink 

Almost  to  nothing,  when  he  came 
And  told  me  all  of  love's  strange  things : 

31 


A 

November 

Vigil. 


i 


1 


i 

;    If 


till 


41 


r>' '    \l 


r  <^.ri 


A  The  paths  love  trod,  love's  eyes  of  flame, 

November  j^g  gjient  hours,  its  rapid  wings.   .   .    . 


Vigil. 


The  moon  still  waited^  watching  her 
(  The  cloud  still  stretched  there y  close  above  ; 
The  trees  beneath')  ;  it  could  not  stir^ 
And  yet  it  seemed  the  shape  thereof ^ 

Since  she  looked  firsty  some  change  had  known. 
In  places  it  had  burned  away^ 
And  one  side  had  much  thinner  grown  ; 
—  IVhat  light  that  came  from  it  was  gray. 

It  was  not  curved  from  east  to  westj 
But  lay  upon  its  back  ;  like  one 
Woundedy  or  weary  of  some  quests 
Or  by  strong  enemies  undone. 

Elsewhere  no  stai's  were  in  the  sky ; 
She  knew  they  were  burned  out  and  dead 
Because  no  clouds  wenty  drifting  by. 
Across  the  light  the  strange  moon  shed. 

Now,  I  can  hope  for  naught  but  death. 
I  would  not  stay  to  give  him  pain. 
Or  say  the  words  a  woman  saith 
When  love  hath  called  aloud  in  vain 

And  got  no  answer  anywhere. 
It  were  far  better  I  should  die. 
And  have  rough  strangers  come  to  bear 
My  body  far  away,  where  I 

32 


t.-,.,  ,«>y-— . ,, 


•^T 


Shall  know  the  quiet  of  the  tomb ; 
That  they  should  leave  me,  with  no  tears. 
To  think  and  think  within  the  gloom 
For  many  years,  for  many  years. 

The  thought  of  that  strange,  narrow  place 
Is  hard  for  me  to  bear,  indeed ; 
I  do  not  fear  cold  Death's  embrace. 
And  where  black  worms  draw  nigh  to  feed 

On  my  white  body,  then,  I  know 
That  I  shall  make  no  mournfiil  cry  : 
But  that  I  should  be  hidden  so 
Whes'   T  no  more  may  see  the  sky,  — 

The  wide  sky  filled  with  many  a  star. 
Or  all  around  the  yellow  sun. 
Or  even  tne  sky  where  great  clouds  are 
That  wait  until  the  rain  be  done, 

— That  is  an  evil  thing  for  me.   .   .   . 
Across  the  sky  the  cloud  swung  still 
And  pressed  the  moon  down  heavily 
Where  leafless  trees  grew  on  the  hill. 

The  pale  nwo:"  now  was  very  thin. 
There  was  up  i  ater  near  the  place ^ 
Else  would  the  ,.ioon  that  slept  therein 
Have  frightened  her  with  its  gray  face. 

How  shall  I  wish  to  see  the  sky  ! 
For  that  alone  mine  eyes  shall  weep ; 

33 


A 

November 

Vigil, 


) 


V 


^    >>i 


V 


«J 


s 


V 


*\ 


1 1 


I 


.11 


] 


•»     V 


i\       » 


i-',i 


A  I  care  not  where  they  make  me  lie, 

Njvember  j^or  if  my  grave  be  digged  deep. 

So  they  leave  loose  my  coffin's  lid 
And  throw  on  me  no  mouldy  clay. 
That  the  white  stars  may  not  be  hid  : 
This  litde  thing  is  all  I  pray. 

Then  I  shall  move  me  wearily. 

And  clasp  each  bone  that  was  my  wrist. 

Around  each  slender  bony  icnee ; 

And  wind  my  hair,  thir  once  he  kissed. 

Around  my  body  wasted  thin. 
To  keep  me  from  the  grave's  cold  breath  ; 
And  on  my  knees  rest  my  poor  chin. 
And  think  of  what  I  lose  by  death. 

I  shall  be  happy,  being  dead.   .   .   . 
The  moony  by  noWy  had  nearly  goney 
As  if  it  knew  its  time  was  sped 
And  feared  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 

It  had  not  risen  ;  one  could  see 

The  cloud  was  strong  to  keep  it  back  ; 

It  merely  faded  utterly  y 

And  where  it  was  the  sky  grew  black. 

Till  suddenly  the  east  turned  gray y 
Although  no  stars  were  overhead ; 
And  though  the  moon  had  died  away y 
There  came  faint  glimmerings  of  red  ; 

34 


'f     '/: 


■^  ; 


i' 


Then  larger  waves  of  golden  light 
Heralded  that  the  day  was  born. 
And  on  the  furthest  eastern  height 

With  swift  feet  came  the  waited  morn. 

With  swift  feet  came  the  morn,  but  lo  / 
fust  as  its  triumph  was  begun, 
llie  first  wild  omet  of  the  snow 
Strangled  the  glad  imperial  sun  ! 


NUNC  DIMITTIS 

LORD  of  Love,  Thy  servant  thus  doth  pray: 
Abide  Thou  v^^here  my  Lady  deigns  to  stay. 
Yet  send  Thy  peace  to  lead  me  on  my  way  ; 

Because  the  memories  of  the  things  that  were  — 
That  little  blessed  while  with  Thee  and  her — 
Make  me  a  heavy-hearted  traveller. 

And  so,  when  some  plain  irks,  or  some  steep  hill, 

I knowing  that  Thy  will  was  once  our  will  — 

Shall  be  most  sure  Thou  livest  with  her  still. 

And  only  waitest  —  Thou  and  she  alone  — 
Until  I  know  again  as  I  have  known 
The  glory  that  abideth  near  our  throne. 


A 

November 

Vigil. 


t: 

■  i 

M 


V 


35 


I 


I 


^^  ^-^  pi 


Iv  f  \ 


BETWEEN  THE  BATTLES 

ET  us  bury  him  here. 
Where  the  maples  arc  reu  ! 
SHe  is  dead. 

And  he  died  thanking  God  that  he  fell  with  the 
fall  of  the  leaf  and  the  year. 

Where  the  hillside  is  sheer. 
Let  it  echo  our  tread 
Whom  he  led  ; 

Let  us  follow  as  gladly  as  ever  we  followed  who 
never  knew  fear. 

Ere  he  died,  they  had  fled ; 
Yet  they  heard  his  last  cheer 
Ringing  clear,  — 

When  we  lifted  him  up,  he  would  fain  have 
pursued,  but  grew  dizzy  instead. 

Break  h's  sword  and  his  spear  ! 
Let  this  last  prayer  be  said 
By  the  bed 

We  have  made  underneath  the  wet  wind  in  the 
maple  trees  moaning  so  drear  : 

**0  Lord  God,  by  the  red 
Sullen  end  of  the  year 
That  is  here. 

We  beseech  Thee  to  guide  us  and  strengthen  our 
swords  till  his  slayers  be  dead  !  '* 


tH'- 


Um 


36 


7f  t ' 


iHH 


r; 


THE  QUIET  VALLEY 

IHEY  pity  me  who  have  grown  old,  — 
ISo  old,  mine  eyes  may  not  behold 
If  any  wolf  chance  near  the  fold. 

They  pity  me,  because,  alas ! 
I  lie  and  dream  among  the  grass. 
And  let  the  herds  unheeded  pass. 

They  deem  I  must  be  sorrowing. 
Because  I  note  not  when  the  Spring 
Is  over  me  and  everything. 

They  know  not  why  I  am  forlorn,  — 

How  could  they  know  ?  —  They  were  not  bom 

When  he  rode  here  that  April  morn. 

They  were  not  living  when  he  came 
Into  this  valley,  swift  like  flame,  — 
Perchance  they  have  not  heard  his  name  ! 

My  men  were  very  valiant  men  — 

(Alas,  that  I  had  only  ten  ! 

These  people  were  not  living  then.) 

But  when  one  is  not  yet  awake 
His  banner  is  not  hard  to  take. 
His  spears  are  easy  things  to  break. 

And  dazed  men  are  not  hard  to  slay 
When  many  foes,  as  strong  as  they. 
With  swords  and  spears  come  down  their  way. 

37 


I- 


m 


I" 


'i 


•»'■ 


?   : 


*  ; 


If 


m^,»  ^^'^■•. 


T':f  Quiet  This  valley  now  has  quiet  grown  ; 
Valley,      ^^d  I  lie  here  content,  alone. 

Dreaming  of  things  that  I  have  known  ; 

And  count  the  mounds  of  waving  grass  — 
(Ten,  —  yea,  and  ten  more,  by  the  Mass !  ) 
And  let  the  restless  cattle  pass. 


THE    KINGFISHER 

UNDER  the  sutiy  the  Kingfisher 
From  his  high  place  was  watching  her, 

E  knew  she  came  from  some  far  place  ; 
iFor  when  she  threw  her  body  down, 
>She  seemed  quite  tired  ;  and  her  face 
Had  dust  upon  it ;  and  her  gown. 
That  had  been  yellow,  now  was  brown. 

She  lay  near  where  the  shadows  lie 
At  noontime  when  they  meet  the  sun. 
The  water  floated  slowly  by 
Her  feet.     Her  hair  was  all  undone. 
And  with  the  grass  its  gold  was  spun. 

The  trees  were  tall  and  green  behind. 
And  hid  the  house  upon  the  hill. 
This  place  was  sheltered  from  the  wind. 
And  all  the  little  leaves  were  still. 
And  every  fern  and  daffodil. 

Her  face  was  hidden  in  her  hands ; 

And  through  the  grass,  and  through  her  hair, 

38 


wm 


The  sunlight  found  the  golden  bands 
About  her  wrists.      (It  was  aware. 
Also,  that  her  two  arms  were  bare.) 

From  his  high  branchy  the  Kingfisher 
Looked  down  on  her  and  pitied  her. 

He  wondered  who  that  she  could  be,  — 
This  dear,  strange  lady,  who  had  come 
To  vex  him  with  her  misery  ; 
And  why  her  days  were  wearisome. 
And  what  far  country  was  her  home. 

Her  home  must  be  far  off  indeed. 
Wherein  such  bitter  grief  could  grow. 
Had  there  been  no  one  there  to  plead 
For  her  when  they  had  wronged  her  so  ? 
Did  none  her  perfect  honor  know  .-' 

Was  there  no  sword  or  pennoned  lance 

Omnipotent  in  hall  or  field 

For  her  complete  deliverance  ? 

To  make  them  cry,  "  We  yield  !  we  yield**  ? 

Were  not  her  colors  on  some  shield  ? 

Had  he  been  there^  the  Kingfisher^ 
How  he  had  fought  and  died  for  her  / 

A  little  yellow  bird  flew  by ; 
And  where  the  water-weeds  were  still. 
Hovered  a  great  blue  dragon-fly  ; 
Small  fishes  set  the  streams  a-thrill 
The  Kingfisher  forgot  to  kill. 

39 


The 
King- 
fisher, 


"I 


i 


\h 


!l< 


! 


The 
King- 
fisher. 


He  only  thought  of  her  who  lay 
Upon  the  ground  and  was  so  fair,  — 
As  fair  as  she  who  came  one  day 
And  sat  long  with  her  lover  there. 
The  same  gold  sun  was  in  her  hair. 

They  had  come  down,  because  of  love. 
From  the  great  house  on  the  hillside  : 
This  lady  had  no  share  thereof. 
For  now  this  place  was  sanctified  ! 
Had  this  fair  lady's  lover  died  ? 

Was  this  dear  lady's  lover  dead  ? 
Had  she  come  here  to  wait  until 
Her  heart  and  soul  were  comforted  ? 
Why  was  it  not  within  her  will 
To  seek  the  lady  on  the  hill } 

She,  too,  was  lonely  ;  for  he  had 
Beheld  her  just  this  morning,  when 
Her  last  kiss  made  her  lover  glad 
Who  went  to  fight  the  heathen-men  : 
(He  said  he  would  return  again  !) 

That  lady  would  have  charity 

He  knew,  because  her  love  was  great ; 

And  this  one  —  fairer  even  than  she  — 

Should  enter  in  her  open  gate 

And  be  no  more  disconsolate  ! 

Under  the  suUy  the  Kingfisher 
Knew  no  one  else  might  comfort  her. 


(^  %'-   « I- 


it-   \ 


40 


■<**.» 


THE  CONQUEROR 

WILL  go  now  where  my  dear  Lady  is. 
And  tell  her  how  I  won  in  this  great  fight ; 
Ye  know  not  death  who  say  this  shape  is  his 
That  loometh  up  between  me  and  the  light. 

As  if  death  could  wish  anything  of  one 
Who  hath  to-day  brought  many  men  to  death  ! 
Why  should  it  not  grow  dark  ?  — Surely  the  sun 
Hath  seen  since  morning  much  that  wearieth. 

Dead  bodies  ;  red,  red  blood  upon  the  land  ; 
Torn  sails  of  scattered  ships  upon  the  sea ; 
And  dead  forgotten  men  stretched  on  the  sand 
Close  to  the  sea's  edge,  where  the  waves  are  free; 

What  day  hath  seen  such  things  and  hath  not  fled  ? 
What  day  hath  stayed,  hearing,  for  frequent  sounds. 
The  flashing  swords  of  men  well-helmeted. 
The  moans  of  warriors  sick  of  many  wounds  ? 

Ye  know  not  death  ;  this  thing  is  but  the  night. 
Wherefore  I  should  be  glad  that  it  is  come  : 
For  when  I  left  my  Lady  for  this  fight, 
I  said,  **At  sunset  I  am  coming  home." 


I 


*  2 

\ 


**When  you  return,  I  shall  be  here,"  she  said, 
"God  knows  that  I  must  pray  a  litde  while." 
And  as  she  put  my  helmet  on  my  head. 
She  kissed  me ;  and  her  blue  eyes  tried  to  smile. 


41 


}  1) 


J 


WT. 


1' 


■    ' 


i     '  *  I 


7'/i^  Con-  And  still  she  waiteth  underneath  the  trees. 

^ueror,      (When  we  had  gone  a  little  on  our  way 

I  turned  and  looked  ;  she  knelt  there  on  her  knees 
I  heard  her  praying  many  times  to-day.) 

Nay,  nay,  I  need  no  wine  !     She  waiteth  still 
Watching  and  praying  till  I  come  to  her. 
She  saw  the  sun  drop  down  behind  the  hill 
And  wondereth  I  am  a  loiterer. 


So  I  must  go.      Bring  me  my  shield  and  sword  ! 
(Is  there  no  unstained  grass  will  clean  this  stain  ?) 
This  day  is  won  ; — bit  now  the  great  reward 
Cometh  !  O  Love,  thy  prayers  were  not  in  vain  ! 

I  am  well  rested  now.  — Nay,  I  can  rise 
Without  your  help  !     Why  do  ye  look  at  me 
With  so  much  pain  and  pity  in  your  eyes. 
Who  gained  with  me  to-day  this  victory  ? 

I  think  we  should  be  glad  we  are  not  dead, 
— Only,  perchance,  no  Lady  waiteth  you. 
No  Lady  who  is  all  uncomforted. 
And  v/ho  hath  watched  and  prayed  these  long 
hours  through. 

Yea,  I  must  go.  —  What  ?    Am  I  tired  yet  ? 
Let  me  lie  here  and  rest  my  aching  side. 
The  thought  of  her  hath  made  me  quite  forget 
How  sharp  his  sword  was  just  before  he  died. 


42 


fi 


>\ 


es. 

ler  knees 

) 

th  still 
hill 


sword  ! 
is  stain  ?) 
reward 

in  vain  ! 


It  me 

s, 
? 

d, 
I  long 


et? 

forget 
died. 


THE   KING'S    HOSTEL 

ET  us  make  it  fit  for  him  ! 

He  will  come  ere  many  hours 

Are  passed  over.     Strew  these  Howers 

Where  the  floor  is  hard  and  bare  ! 

Ever  was  his  royal  whim 

That  his  place  of  rest  were  fair. 

Such  a  narrow  little  room  ! 

Think  you  he  will  deign  to  use  it  ? 

Yes,  we  know  he  would  not  choose  it 

Were  there  any  other  near  ; 

Here  there  is  such  damp  and  gloom, 

Ar     such  quietness  is  here. 

That  he  loved  the  light,  we  know  ; 
And  we  know  he  was  the  gladdest 
Always  when  the  mirth  was  maddest 
And  the  laughter  drowned  the  song  ; 
When  the  fire's  shade  and  glow 
Fell  upon  the  loyal  throng. 

Yet  it  may  be,  if  he  come. 
Now,  to-night,  he  will  be  tired  ; 
And  no  more  will  be  desired 
All  the  music  once  he  knew ; 
He  will  joy  the  lutes  are  dumb 
And  be  glad  the  lights  are  few. 

Heard  you  how  the  fight  has  gone  ? 
Surely  it  will  soon  be  ended  ! 
Was  their  stronghold  well  defended 

43 


if, 


it 


I  ■ 


H 


if- 


•  i 


The 

King's 

Hostel. 


Ere  it  fell  before  his  might  ? 
Did  it  yield  soon  after  dawn. 
Or  when  noon  was  at  its  height  ? 

Hark  !  his  trump<-t !     It  is  done. 
Smooth  the  bed.     And  for  a  cover 
Drape  those  scarlet  colors  over ; 
And  upon  these  dingy  walls 
Hang  what  banners  he  has  won. 
Hasten  ere  the  twilight  falls ! 

They  are  here  !  —  We  knew  the  best 
When  we  set  us  to  prepare  him 
Such  a  place  ;  for  they  that  bear  him 
—  They  as  he  —  seem  weary  too  ; 
Peace  !  and  let  him  have  his  rest ; 
There  is  nothing  more  to  do. 


%  \ 


fU    ' 


■'0 


i^<f^\ 


\i' , 


BETWEEN  THE   WINTER   AND     THE 
SPRING 

ETWEEN  the  Winter  and  the  Spring 
One  came  to  me  at  dead  of  night  ; 
1 1  heard  him  well  as  any  might, 
Although  his  lips,  unmurmuring. 
Made  no  sweet  sounds  for  my  delight  ; 
Also,  I  knew  him,  though  long  days 
(It  seemed)  had  fallen  across  my  Ways 
Since  1  had  felt  his  comforting. 

It  was  quite  dark,  but  I  could  see 
His  hair  was  yellow  as  the  sun  ; 

44 


a-       i  - 


VI 


r  (.  i ' 


mm^^^ 


)     THE 


Spring 
It  ; 


And  his  soft  garments,  every  one, 
Weio  white  as  angels'  throats  may  be ; 
And  as  some  man  whose  pain  is  done 
At  last,  and  peace  is  surely  his. 
His  eyes  were  perfect  with  great  bliss 
And  seemed  so  glad  to  look  at  me. 

I  knew  that  he  had  come  to  bring 
The  change  that  I  was  waiting  for. 
And,  as  he  crossed  my  rush-strewn  floor, 
I  had  no  thought  of  questioning  ; 
And  then  he  kissed  me,  o'er  and  o'er. 
Upon  the  eyes  ;  so  I  fell 
Asleep  unfrightened,  —  knowing  well 
That  morning  would  fulfil  the  Spring. 

And  when  they  came  at  early  morn 
And  found  that  I  at  last  was  dead. 
Some  two  or  three  knelt  by  my  bed 
And  prayed  for  one  they  deemed  forlorn  ; 
But  he  they  wept  for  only  said 
(Thinking  of  when  the  old  days  were), 
"  Alas  that  God  had  need  of  her 
The  very  morning  Spring  was  born  ! '  * 

THE    MOTHER 

JHE  long  dark  night  crawled  slowly  on  ; 
I  waited  patiently. 
Knowing  at  last  the  sudden  dawn, 
Sometime,  would  surely  be. 


Between 
the 

Winter 
and  the 


Sp 


ring. 


it 


I 


45 


r 


t/rr 


ri-i 


The 
Mother, 


It  came,  —  to  tell  me  everything 
Was  Winter's  quiet  slave  : 
I  Viral  ted  still,  aware  that  Spring 
Was  strong  to  come  and  save. 

And  then  Spring  came,  and  I  was  glad 
A  few  expectant  hours  ; 
Until  I  learned  the  things  I  had 
Were  only  withered  flowers 

Because  there  came  not  with  the  Spring 
As  in  the  ancient  days  — 
The  sound  of  his  feet  pattering 
Along  Spring's  open  ways  ; 

Because  his  sweetly  serious  eyes 
Looked  into  mine  no  more  ; 
Because  no  more  in  childish-wise 
He  brought  his  gathered  store 

Of  dandelions  to  my  bed. 
And  violets  and  grass,  — 
Deeming  I  would  be  comforted 
That  Spring  had  come  to  pass. 

And  now  these  unused  toys  and  I 
Have  litde  dread  or  care 
For  any  season  that  drifts  by 
The  silences  we  share  ; 

And  sometimes,  when  we  think  to  pray. 
Across  the  vacant  years 
We  see  God  watching  him  at  play 
And  pitying  our  tears. 

46 


mmmm 


wm 


THE  WINDOW  OF  DREAMS 

^T  was  quite  dark  within  the  room 

r  Wherein  the  Lady  Alice  sat ; 

)One  had  not  seen,  who  looked  thereat. 

The  gathered  dust  upon  her  loom. 

There  was  such  gloom. 

And  though  the  hangings  on  the  wall 
Were  wrought  so  well  and  cunningly 
That  many  had  come  far  to  see 
Their  glory  once  (for  they  were  all 
Of  cardinal. 

And  gold,  and  silk,  and  curious  glass) 
The  ladies  with  the  long  red  hair 
Thereon,  the  strong  men  fighting  there. 
The  little  river  edged  with  grass,  — 
Were  now,  alas. 

As  if  they  had  been  always  gray. 
Likewise  the  lily,  whose  perfume 
Had  once  been  over  all  the  room. 
In  which  dark  corner  now  it  lay,  — 
What  man  might  say  ? 

She  did  not  see  these  things,  or  know 
That  they  had  changed  since  she  had  seen. 
She  liked  it  best  to  sit  between 
Two  little  firs  (they  used  to  grow. 
Once,  long  ago  !) 


ir 


I 


1^ 


%l 


it 


I,! 


1 1 ' 


47 


I; 


H 


HI' ' 

'111  i  ] 

' ;  V 

r 


T/ie  That  stood  each  in  an  earthen  pot 

Window   Upon  the  window's  either  side. 
Dreams.    They  had  been  green  before  they  died. 

But  hke  the  rest  fell  out  their  lot,  — 

To  be  forgot. 

Yet  what  cared  she  for  such  as  these. 
Whose  window  was  toward  the  sun 
At  sun-rising  ?     There  was  not  one 
Of  them  so  strong  and  sure  to  please, 
Or  bring  her  ease. 

As  what  she  saw  when  she  looked  through 
Her  window  just  before  the  dawn. 
These  were  the  sights  she  gazed  upon  : 
Sir  John,  whose  silken  pennon  flevj^ 
Yellow  and  blue. 

And  proud  to  be  upon  his  lance  ; 
The  horse  he  rode  being  gray  and  white  ; 
A  few  men,  unafraid  to  fight. 
Followed  (^there  were  some  men  in  France 
Were  brave,  perchance  /  ) 

And  they  were  armed  with  swords  and  spears  ; 
Their  horses,  too,  were  mostly  gray, 
—  They  seemed  not  sad  to  go  away, 
For  they  were  men  had  lost  their  fears 
With  their  child-years. 

They  had  such  hope,  there  was  but  one 
Looked  back :  Sir  John  had  strength  to  look. 

48 


til' 


Ef: 


WMPWH 


mm^ 


His  men  saw  not  that  his  lance  shook 
A  little^  for  though  night  was  done^ 
There  was  no  sun. 

And  so  they  rode  into  the  dawn 

That  waited  Just  behind  the  hill ; 

(^In  France  there  were  some  men  to  kill /) 

These  were  the  things  she  looked  upon 

Till  they  were  gone. 


The  room  was  dark,  and  full  of  fear ; 
And  so  the  Lady  Alice  stayed 
Beside  the  window.      Here  she  prayed 
Each  morning,  and  when  night  drew  near. 
Year  after  year. 

Beside  her  lay  some  unused  things : 
A  trumpet  that  had  long  been  mute  ; 
A  vellum  book  ;  a  little  lute 
That  once  had  ten  unrusted  strings ; 
And  four  gold  rings  ; 

A  piece  of  faded  cloth-of-gold  ; 
And  three  black  pennies  that  were  white 
As  silver  once  :  —  the  great  delight 
She  had  of  all  these  things  of  old 
Was  now  quite  cold. 

Only  the  things  that  she  could  see 
Out  of  the  window  gladdened  her  ; 

49 


The 
Window 

of 
Dreams. 


hi 


\ 


I  ■ 


•411*1 


■K^MMIHW^q 


^-^f  After  the  morning,  those  things  were  : 

Window  ji  ^^ip  fj^^^f  ^^^g  triumphantly 

Dreams. 


(This  sight  would  be 


f . 


Plainest  a  little  ere  the  noon) 
On  wide  blue  waters^  with  the  wind 
Strong frofn  the  west  that  lay  behind  ; 
Its  sail  curved  like  a  slender  moony 
Born  into  June. 

An  empty  ship  beside  the  shore 
Of  some  unconquered  foreign  land ; 
Some  brave  men  fighting  on  the  sand 
As  they  had  never  fought  before 
In  any  war  ; 

A  few  men  fleeing  to  the  hills 
(This  came  a  little  after  noon), 
Gody  but  the  fight  was  ended  soon  / 
They  were  not  hard  to  wound  and  kill ! 
A  trumpet  shrill 

Echoes y  and  many  knights  pursue  / 
And  on  the  hillside  dead  men  lie. 
Who  learned  before  they  came  to  die 
The  yellow  flags  the  victors  flew 
Were  crossed  with  blue  ! 


:<( 


50 


■^p 


No  wonder  that  this  window-place 
Could  make  the  Lady  Alice  glad. 
When  sights  like  these  were  what  she  had  ! 
Yet  there  was  one  that  made  her  face 
For  a  little  space 


The 
Window 

of 
Dreams. 


Grow  like  a  face  that  God  has  known. 
I  think  she  was  the  happiest 
When  the  sun  dropped  into  the  west ; 
This  was  the  thing  she  then  was  shown. 
And  this  alone : 


A  laden  ship  that  followed  fast 
The  way  the  setting  sun  had  led  ; 
In  the  east  wind  her  great  sail  spread ; 
A  brave  knight  standing  near  the  mast ; 
The  shore  at  last  f 


< 


Of  all  things,  this  the  best  did  seem. 
And  now  the  gathering  darkness  fell ; 
The  morn  would  bring  him,  she  knew  well ; 
She  slept ;  and  in  her  sleep,  I  deem. 
She  had  one  dream. 


Against  the  window-side  she  slept. 
This  window-place  was  very  strange  ; 
Since  it  was  made  it  had  known  change. 
Beneath  it  once  no  women  wept. 
And  no  vines  crept 

51 


■ttUMb 


The  And  twisted  in  the  broken  glass. 

Window   ^QY£[&  time  ago,  the  little  tree 
That  she  had  planted  tenderly 
Was  not  much  higher  than  tall  grass ; 
But  now,  alas. 


t 


reams. 


;"* '!'  t 


,t 


Its  branches  were  the  greatest  where 
Her  window  looked  toward  the  sun. 
One  branch,  indeed,  its  way  had  won 
Into  her  room,  — it  did  not  bear 
Green  leaves  in   here. 

Above  the  window,  and  inside. 
Great  spider-webs  were  spun  across. 
Where  stone  was,  there  was  wet  green  moss 
Wherein  small  creeping  things  did  hide 
t/ntil  they  died. 

The  leaves  that  looked  toward  the  room 
Were  hardly  anything  but  veins ; 
They  had  been  wasted  by  the  rains. 
Like  some  dead  naked  girl  in  the  gloom 
Of  some  old  tomb. 

But  those  outside  were  broad  and  green. 
And  lived  between  the  sun  and  shade. 
A  perfect  bower  they  had  made,  — 
Beneath  them  there  should  sit  some  queen. 
Born  to  be  seen  ! 


52 


\\  I 


It  was  quite  dark  within  the  place 
Wherein  the  Lady  Alice  slept. 
I  heard  the  girls  below  who  wept. 
But  God  did  not  (of  His  good  grace) 
Show  me  her  face. 


The 

Window 

of 
Dreams. 


THE  RELIEF  OF  WET  WILLOWS 
NOW  this  is  the  ballad  of  seven  men 
Who  rode  to  Wet  Willows  and  back  again. 

'T  was  only  an  hour  before  the  dawn 
When  they  deemed  it  best  to  awaken  Sir 
'John. 

For  they  knew  his  sword  long  years  had  hung 
On  the  wall,  unhandled.      (Once  he  was  young,  - 

They  did  not  remember;  the  tale  had  been  told 
To  them  by  their  fathers,  ere  they  grew  old  — 

And  then  his  sword  was  a  dreaded  thing 

When  the  men  from  the  North  came  a-warfaring  !) 

But  the  women  said  that  the  things  they  knew 
Were  best  made  known  to  their  master,  too  : 

How,  down  at  Wet  Willows,  there  lay  on  the 

ground 
Some  men  who  were  dead  and  some  who  were 

bound 

53 


■  w  I  ^<<»  I  liiMM 


\i 


The  And  unable  to  succor  the  women  who  wept 

^t^\'X  That  the  North-King  had  come  while  their  war- 

of  yvei 

ivtliinvs,        »'>o''s  slept. 


:V  / 


So  it  came  to  pass,  with  the  wind  of  the  dawn. 
Six  men  with  their  armor  girded  on 

Had  ridden  around  to  the  Eastern  gate  ; 

It  was  there  that  Sir  John  had  told  them  to  wait. 

And  when  he  came  they  were  unafraid. 
And  knew  no  envy  for  those  who  stayed 

Where  the  walls  of  the  castle  were  strong  and 

high  ; 
There  were  none  save  some  women  to  bid  them 

good-by. 

And  they  saw,  as  the  sky  in  the  East  grew  gray. 
That  Sir  John  and  his  men  were  some  miles  on 
their  way. 


1i 


■J'  i' 


These  things  were  heard  and  seen  by  the  sun 
When  noon  at  Wet  Willows  was  nearly  done. 

After  the  batde,  the  King  from  the  North 
Bade  his  men  lead  the  seven  horses  forth. 


H"- 


And  bind,  one  on  each,  the  Southern  man 
Who  had  dared  to  ride  it  when  day  began. 

54 


-  .«^**^'«jf  *-,-1^  V!J(B»^_  fi 


The  words  that  the  Northern  King  had  said 
Sir  John  and  his  men  heard  not,  being  dead ; 

( Nor  heard  they  the  sobs  ot"  the  women  who 

knew 
That  Sir  John's  son*s  son  in  the  East  was  true 

To  the  cross  that  was  white  on  the  shield  that  he 

had); 
Nor  icnew  they  their  home-going  horses  were  glad  ; 

Nor  did  they  remember  the  trees  by  the  way. 
Or  the  streams  that  they  crossed,  or  the  dead 
leaves  that  lay 

By  the  roadside.      And  when  the  moon  rose,  red 

and  near. 
They  saw  not  its  splendor ;  no  more  did  they 

hear 

The  wind  that  was  moaning  from  hill  unto  hill : 
Their  leader, — his  will  was  his  horse's  will. 


The 
Relief 
of  Wet 


sun 
done. 


In  the  Eastern  sky  faint  streaks  of  gray 
Were  changed  to  red,  and  it  was  day. 

The  women  had  waited  all  night  long 
Where  the  casde  tower  was  high  and  strong ; 

And  now,  at  last,  they  beheld  Sir  John, 
And  his  men,  and  the  horses  they  rode  upon, 

55 


The 
Relief 
of  Wet 
Willows. 


Just  crossing  the  brow  ot*  the  nearest  hill. 
The  women's  cries  rose  loud  and  shrill. 

And  in  their  joy  they  pitied  not. 

The  men  Sir  John  and  his  men  had  fought 

And  slain  at  Wet  Willows.      (Sir  John  was  not 

young 
They  knew  well ;  but  the  might  of  his  sword  as 

it  swung. 

In  the  old  fighting  days,  was  a  thing  they  well 

knew,  — 
A  shield  was  but  glass  as  it  clove  its  way  through  !  ) 

So  they  who  had  waited  and  watched  and  prayed 
The  long  night  through  were  no  more  afraid 

To  open  the  gate,  — for  Sir  John  and  his  men 
Who  had  fought  at  Wet  Willows  were  home 
again. 

THE  BUILDER 

^OME  and  let  me  make  thee  glad 
[In  this  house  that  I  have  made  ! 
> Nowhere  (I  am  unafraid  !) 

Canst  thou  find  its  like  on  Earth  : 

Come,  and  learn  the  perfect  worth 

Of  the  labor  I  have  had. 

I  have  fashioned  it  for  thee. 
Every  room  and  pictured  wall  ; 

56 


li  1% 


r  1' 


%%'r- 


s  not 
ord  as 

well 
ugh!) 

• 

prayed 
id 

nen 
me 


Every  marble  pillar  tall. 
Every  door  and  window-place  ; 
All  were  done  that  thy  fair  face 
Might  look  kindlier  on  me. 

Here,  moreover,  thou  shalt  find 
Strange,  delightful,  far-brought  things : 
Dulcimers,  whose  tightened  strings. 
Once,  dead  women  loved  to  touch  ; 
(Deeming  they  could  mimic  much 
Of  the  music  of  the  wind  !) 

Heavy  candlesticks  of  brass ; 
Chess-men  carved  of  ivory  ; 
Mass-books  written  perfectly 
By  some  patient  monk  of  old  ; 
Flagons  wrought  of  thick,  red  gold. 
Set  with  gems  and  colored  glass ; 

Burnished  armor,  once  some  knight 
(Dead,  I  deem,  long  wars  ago  !) 
Its  great  strength  was  glad  to  know 
When  his  Lady  needed  him  : 
(Now  that  both  his  eyes  are  dim 
Both  his  sword  and  shield  are  bright !) 

Come,  and  share  these  things  with  me. 

Men  have  died  to  leave  to  us ! 

We  shall  find  life  glorious 

In  this  splendid  house  of  love  ; 

Come,  and  claim  thy  part  thereof,  — 

I  have  fashioned  it  for  thee  ! 


The 
Builder. 


S7 


! 


TE  DEUM  LAUDAMUS 

WILL  praise  God  alway  for  each  new  year. 
Knowing  that  it  shall  be  most  worthy  of 
His  kindness  and  His  pity  and  His  love 
I  will  wait  patient,  till,  from  sphere  to  sphere. 
Across  large  times  and  spaces,  ringeth  clear 
The  voice  of  Him  who  sitteth  high  above. 
Saying,  "Behold  !  thou  hast  had  pain  enough  ; 
Come  ;  for  thy  Love  is  waiting  for  thee  here  !  *  * 
I  know  that  it  must  happen  as  God  saith. 
I  know  it  well.     Yet,  also,  I  know  well 
That  where  birds  sing  and  yellow  wild -flowers 

dwell. 
Or  where  some  strange  new  sunset  lingereth. 
All  Earth  shall  alway  of  her  presence  tell 
Who  liveth  not  for  me  this  side  of  death. 


« 


58 


:w  year, 
)ve 


THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  THIS  BOOK  CONSISTS 
OF  FIVE  HUNDRED  COPIES  WITH  THIRTY- 
FIVE  ADDITIO  AL  COPIES  ON  ENGLISH 
HAND      MADE  PER       PRINTED      BY      THE 

ROCKWELL  A  ^  CHURCHILL  PRESS  OF 
BOSTON      DURING      NOVEMBER      1S96 


rs 


